


Quiet

by larryberry2 (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allisaac, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Resurrection, Scallison, allison comes back, short fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/larryberry2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the distance, the Nemeton buzzes with the combined energy of so many people’s deepest regrets, so much hurt for that one soul who’s forever tied to it by her sacrifice. Every tear, every choked off whisper to a gravestone makes it stronger.</p><p>Six feet under, her body stays still as the days, weeks, months go by. She doesn’t live or breathe, but she doesn’t rot, as if time has come to a sudden stop the moment the lid was closed on her coffin.</p><p>---</p><p>Or, the one where Allison dies and comes back, only it's nothing like the reunion they'd been hoping for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

One moment, Allison is dying in Scott’s arms. It doesn’t hurt. It’s actually the first time _anything_ doesn’t hurt in… Years, really. She’s a little scared of what might be on the other side, but it has to be better. Has to be. When she does go, it’s like falling asleep; quick and easy and mercifully painless. There’s no one to guide her anywhere. No grim reaper. She’s falling asleep, safe in Scott’s warm hold, and she’ll be okay.

She wakes up in an airplane.

It’s not the ending she’s been hoping for, really. A little anticlimatic. After everything that’s happened, she wanted something more exciting than a plane ride, but it’ll do, she guesses. It’s hard to be upset about anything when the world around you is so serene.

She’s not anxious anymore. She’s not worried or sad or angry, and while she’s not happy either, it’s good. Calm. Safe. Her body doesn’t hurt, not even that slight ache in her back that’s been accompanying her since puberty kicked in, or the squeeze of the waistband that’s usually just a little too tight around her hips. The atmosphere is amazing - warm and comforting, like coming home at the end of a long, hard day - and the seat is soft, and the people riding with her all seem far, far away, nobody invading her personal space. The only noises she hears are the slight hum of a voice in the distance, the soft little sigh of a sleeping child a few seats over. Quiet. Calm. There’s nothing to fear anymore, nothing to gain or lose, nobody who needs her.

Everything is soft and quiet and good. She can rest.

—

Whoever told them it gets easier was lying.

Allison is dead. She’s _dead_. It’s their fault.

If Scott hadn’t dragged her into a world of werewolves.

If Isaac hadn’t needed her to protect him from that oni.

If Stiles hadn’t been possessed.

If Lydia had encouraged her to stay in Europe like she’d been seriously debating.

If Chris hadn’t raised her to be a warrior.

If Derek had been a better Alpha and not let any of this happen.

If only, if only, if only. It hurts to think. It hurts to remember her, but trying not to is impossible.

It’s Derek’s idea to take Allison’s cell phone, turn it off, and bury it with her. _You never know_ , he says. _Peter came back to life. Maybe…_

Chris pats him on the back and shakes his head. It won’t happen, but he lets Derek slip the phone into his dead daughter’s pocket anyway; holds it together until he can get home and drink and cry himself unconscious. Compartmentalizing only works for so long.

Scott and Lydia can’t allow themselves to hope that phone call will ever happen, and Isaac and Stiles know full well how many nights they’ve spent awake wishing someone up above would bring back someone they loved dearly. How many coins spent on wishes to a fountain, how many promises to the ultimately empty night sky that they’d be on their best behavior for the rest of their lives if they could just get to see _them_ again. Tell them ‘I miss you’. ‘I love you’. ‘I’m sorry’.

_I’m sorry.  
_

_—  
_

In the distance, the Nemeton buzzes with the combined energy of so many people’s deepest regrets, so much hurt for that one soul who’s forever tied to it by her sacrifice. Every tear, every choked off whisper to a gravestone makes it stronger.

Six feet under, her body stays still as the days, weeks, months go by. She doesn’t live or breathe, but she doesn’t rot, as if time has come to a sudden stop the moment the lid was closed on her coffin.


	2. A second chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be super real with you, I'm not sure if I'm gonna follow through with this fic. It might end up unfinished forever. Who knows.

The plane is coming down.

 

Allison isn't worried. She figured this couldn't really be the afterlife; maybe it just takes a while to get there. She wonders whether it's the same for everyone, and if it is, what did souls ride before the airplane was invented? Maybe she'll get to ask God. Or Satan, who knows. She'd have worried before, but now... Now she's floating. Everything's a pleasant haze, light and soothing, every sound so gentle she's never sure if she heard it or not.

 

She's well-rested and content, as if her seventeen and a half years of existence never really happened. Maybe she dreamed it all.

 

The plane is empty now, and she doesn't find it strange that all the others aren't around anymore. There's only one open door leading to a staircase, and below...

 

Nothing.

 

Nothing but thick, white fog, obscuring everything below. She isn't afraid. She steps down slowly, one step at a time, and then-

 

And then-

 

Dark.

 

Dark and small, suffocating. Her body hurts all over, inside and out, too much, too fucking much. She'd forgotten what it's like to feel pain, but oh, her nerves are doing an outstanding job of reminding her. It takes a while to even open her eyes - her eyelids feel like concrete, her joints creaking like an old staircase when she tries to move her fingers, her toes inside the tight shoes. Why is everything tight? Why does everything feel so-

 

Shit. She's in her grave. She's in her grave and she's definitely going to die again down here. (Worrying is a lot of work for her brain; she feels like climbing back up the steps and going back to that airplane.) Except maybe... No. She can find a way, right? She can - she has to. It's hard to move, and she's exhausted, fucking exhausted, by the time she manages to reach into the second pocket she tries (why is everything so heavy? Why is she so uncoordinated?) and victoriously curl five trembling fingers around the hard plastic of a cell phone.

 

It's a moment of triumph until she turns it on and the light is blinding, makes her shut her eyes tight again and wish she'd never pressed the button in the first place. But she can't very well stay the rest of her life buried in that tight little coffin, so she wills her eyes to open again and a whimper gets caught in her sore, dry throat as she forces herself to focus on the too bright screen.

 

Allison sets the brightness to the lowest possible level, and it's a little hard to see, but a hell of a lot better. It still takes her a few minutes to search for her father's number and finally call, but she manages eventually, her eyes very slowly getting used to the still painful light.

 

Talking takes a whole new level of effort. She tries, she really does; her father's voice frantic and desperate on the other side, motivating her to open her mouth wider, to force more and more air uselessly out of her lungs and through mostly immobile vocal chords. All that comes out is a quiet hiss of absolute frustration.

 

She hopes it'll be enough.

 

"Allison?" Her father beckons on the phone, over and over, making her ears and her head ache badly within the confines of the coffin. Closer to a plea with every repetition. Finally, when it seems he's given up on waiting for her voice to cooperate, there's the sound of him swallowing down a presumable lump in his throat.

 

"I'll be there, sweetheart. I'm home, so it's gonna take me about fifteen minutes, okay? Can you hold on? I'm gonna get you out of there and then we'll talk. I love you..."

 

She can't respond. Can only lay there, motionless, useless, until exhaustion puts her to sleep again. This time there's no airplane, and the ache in her body doesn't relent.

 

\---

 

He can't get there fast enough.

 

Allison is back. Somehow. He doesn't know and frankly doesn't care, so long as it's really her. There's a shovel in the trunk of his car, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turn white within seconds, and he must have broken at least five different traffic laws on his way to the graveyard. But he gets there. He doesn't even remember if he locked the car or which way he took to his daughter's grave once he starts digging, digging, sweat and tears dripping down his face into the ground below. Anyone who saw would think he was insane, shoveling dirt out of a two-month-old grave, sobbing out soft little reassurances that he's almost positive she can't hear anyway.

 

"Almost there. You're almost out, baby, hang in there." He whispers as he hoists up the coffin with a strength he didn't know he had, jostling the body inside, hoping fervently that the movement didn't hurt her. Never for a moment did he worry about what she'd look like, whether her body would be possessed or badly decayed or both. He wants his little girl. Nothing else.

 

"Breathe. Just breathe. It'll be okay." He uses the sharp edges of the shovel to pry open the lid, sweaty fingers slipping off of the polished wood. It slides off easily enough after he gets it right, and there she is, looking exactly the way she did when her body was lowered into the ground, only slightly skinnier. And just as dead.

 

Chris reaches inside to grab her wrist, too frazzled to be gentle, not taking another breath until Allison's pulse starts thrumming under his fingers. It's real. She's alive. Her eyes open, groggy and unfocused, and that is all the confirmation he needs to gather her into his arms - she's so skinny, so fragile, he's terrified she'll break within his hold and even more terrified that this is a dream and he'll wake up at any moment - and cradle her lovingly against his chest, sleepy face tucked into his neck.

 

"Can you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?" He asks quietly, the tears running freely down as he settles on the ground, sitting with his back against a nearby tree. Allison is resting entirely on top of him, soft and pliant, breath coming out in reassuring little huffs against his skin. She's back. _She's back_. "Okay, let's - let's do it this way." He pats around until his hand finds hers, small and cold, grabbing weakly at his fingers. "Squeeze my hand once for yes and twice for no, okay?"

 

It takes a moment, but she squeezes his hand once, and just that has him grinning proudly through the tears.

 

"Good. Good. Okay. Are you in pain?"

 

One squeeze.

 

"Where? Can you show me where?"

 

The hand he's not holding rises slowly, very slowly, to make a vague gesture from her head to her toes. Chris flinches, holding her a little tighter in response.

 

"Daddy's gonna check out the wound on your side, okay?"

 

One squeeze. He's careful, almost reverent as he lifts up her shirt to see where the oni's sword got her. It's ugly; fatty tissue and muscles sewn haphazardly by the mortician, dried blood clinging to the stitches. They'll get it checked out later.

 

"Are you okay to move?"

 

Two squeezes, and he lowers her shirt back to where it was before, nuzzling into her hair and pressing a kiss there. She smells like death.

 

"Were you in Heaven?" He asks after a moment of silence, and receives two squeezes in response. "Purgatory?" Instead of responding the way they agreed on, she shrugs halfheartedly.

 

"Was it nice there?"

 

One squeeze. At least there was that.

 

"Can I take you to Deaton?"

 

Allison squeezes twice, but the question was mostly rhethorical, and he stood up carefully with her in his arms to take her to the animal clinic.

**Author's Note:**

> All I can promise is that this story has a happy ending...


End file.
